Oh, beautiful Chai. I met you about five years ago, and knew it was meant to be. A friend brought you to me all the way from India, and told me to treat you gently; one part water, one part milk, a bountiful teaspoon of you, and a squeeze of honey, all slowly stirred over a low heat. That was how I first had you. You were incredible; so complex, softly moving your flavours around my mouth and leaving me in an utter state of bliss.
After I had completely consumed you, I assumed our dalliance was over. It never occurred to me to look for you at the Indian grocery store to continue the romance. A year or two later, I began to see your name around the cafés. You'd sexed up your look by frothing up your milk, and serving yourself up as a 'Chai Latte'. How could I resist? No sooner had my tongue tickled the tip of your frothy peak than I eagerly pulled you into me. I wanted to both savour and devour you. Was it as good for you as it was for me?
Now, I can't deny that I am rather in love with you, Chai. I want you so often, but don't always have the time to brew you up the way you deserve. I'm a tea drinker of old, but I'm contemplating buying some kind of hot milk frother for those occasions when it's just the two of us, with time to spare, and we're feeling a bit kinky. I could never reduce you to powder, or go for a tarted-up imposter . Maybe, when I'm more confident of myself around you, I'll help you bloom by adding you to custards, cookies and decadent desserts. In the meantime, I'll keep you out of direct sunlight, in a dark, dry tin, so as not to abuse your delicate nature. All I ask in return is that you fill me with your gorgeous, beautiful, loveliness.
Gods, I want you so much.